What's He Talking About?
by ElocinMuse
Summary: Post Santa in the Slush. Brennan and Angela get drunk and share some deep thoughts on plants, raccoons, and her partner's ticklishness. ONESHOT.


**Prompt: Yeah. Dunno where this came from. It was entertaining to write, but I often have low standards and entertain easily. You be the judge.  
**

* * *

"Booth ticklish? That's a theory I'd like to explore," Brennan mused aloud, taking another unladylike guzzle of her hard beverage, straight from the bottle itself.

Angela Montenegro was quick to agree, but had to make a great effort to hold back her approving snicker. "Despite my inner squee that is _dying_ to be let out at that revelation, Sweetie—you're going to regret saying that later."

The two girls were seated (sprawled) within the confines of Brennan's office, indulging in a little after-hours rendezvous with Sam. As in Adams. That was just one of the brands of alcohol they were sampling on this fine evening. They were waiting for the results on one of Angela's renderings that was taking its sweet time in concluding. And so… the experiment began. An experiment that Angela Pearly-Gates Montenegro dubbed as 'the sousing of the decade.'

"I'm drunk, Ange," Brennan rationalized. "I have very little control over my speech while intoxicated. It's the same case for each and every living being, while under the influence. Besides," she went on, eyes wide and giving an uncaring _pfft_. She took another sip. "You're drunk, too. Neither one of us will likely recall any fraction of this convra… conversio… chat," she decided, inwardly praising her sharp change of phraseology.

The room quieted. Silence followed.

Finally, "What do you mean—_every_ living being? Humans, Bren." Angela gave her a trademarked Valley Girl look of 'duh'.

"Oh, no." Brennan shook her head vehemently, sitting forward in her seat and nearly toppling over. Her drink wobbled dangerously in her ham-fisted grip. "All mammals and breathing things that possess any evidence of brain matter are prone to," she stifled a hiccup, "inebriation." A wide, drunken smile spread across her face, pleased that she had delivered the five-syllable word without a hindrance.

Angela appeared to consider this very carefully. "So…" she began, addressing it seriously, "you're saying that my fichus will get baked if I water it with a Bud Light?"

Brief quiet.

A loud, unladylike snort was emitted from the artist before she exploded into cackles.

Brennan was lost on the humor. "It's evident that you're doubting my prevalent eru… erudis… smarts. But it's indisputably valid! I can assure you!" While under the influence, Brennan appeared to take an even greater liking to the use of unneccessarily long words. Pausing, she contemplated. "Not on the plant thing, however. Your fichus has no brain."

"I ain't tellin' him that," Angela objected with a none-too-muffled guffaw. "_No_… _way_, Bren." She snickered then for no apparent reason other than it felt like the thing to do at the time.

"No, it's true," a third voice supplied suddenly from the entryway of the office. Both girls whirled (nearly losing their balance) to see Booth casually leaning against the door frame with his arms crossed. "You should see the footage of that drunken raccoon on YouTube."

"OhmiGod! Booth!" Brennan exclaimed, keyed up with rekindled excitement as she attempted to rise from her seat. After her third failed attempt, she decided it best to remain seated. Goofy grin plastered on, she waved sociably. "Hi!"

Angela looked over her shoulder and eyed him carefully. "Aren't you looking particularly… rakish on this fine evening." Both girls took in the sight of Seeley Booth as he balanced on the line between casual and work-dress. He wore a pair of black slacks and a blue dress shirt that was rolled up at the sleeves with the first two buttons loose.

"Thank you. Just got back from one of Parker's school programs." His eyes swept over the two, clearly amused. "What's with the being wasted?"

"It was my idea!" Angela proclaimed, jabbing a finger into the air as if raising her hand in a classroom—the embodiment of any keen student looking for approval.

"That's not at all surprising," he agreed, stepping into the room. "Bones, you're very…" he took note of her firm grip on the bottle of booze swinging about in her jolly grip.

"Totally drunk-faced?" she supplied, always eager to assist him. She snickered behind the mouth of her bottle.

"Totally drunk-faced," he confirmed, feeling the tugging amusement at the corners of his mouth. He did his best to disguise his _hmph_ of laughter by clearing his throat.

"What about this drunken raccoon, now?" Angela prompted.

Her complete gravity and honest interest on the topic made it impossible for him to conceal his hilarity. A deep chuckle escaped him. "Well, you heard the good Doctor. Neither of you will remember this conversation tomorrow, most likely. I don't see the point in explaining a fat and stumbling raccoon who ate one too many fermented berries." It was then that a very mischievous glint appeared in his boyish gaze. "I, on the other hand, am in an absolute sober state of mind, and shall recall every last detail," he happily declared. His gaze flickered to his partner. Good thing she was hammered. He could get an ass-whooping tomorrow. "Especially the part where Bones has been entertaining the idea about launching a tickle attack on her partner—who happens to be myself."

Angela burst into a wild fit of delighted giggles, and Brennan took on a look of comic horrification.

Booth jammed his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels, pleased with himself and flaunting a smug grin. He gave a teasing wink. "Later, Bones. Angela," he nodded once at the artist before heading to the door.

"Wait!" Brennan yowled, arms flailing. "Wait! Booth, stop walking!" she commanded, nearly tumbling out of her seat again. "I'm unfit to pursue you! My motor skills are in high question!"

He did as she asked, casually turning and offering her his devastating Charm Smile. "Yes, Bones?" he offered sweetly.

She glared at him. As it turned out, her drunken glare was far more endearing than her sober glare. He wasn't about to tell her he found this highly adorable, though. She'd probably throw that bottle at his head. She eyed him with comic rage, fully hell-bent and aiming a finger at him.

"You're blackmailing me, aren't you, Seeley Booth?" Her eyes were wide and clouded with garish indignation. "Because I rabbled on you to Dr. Sweets! About when you kicked over that ant hill!"

"Tattled, Bones," he corrected her with practiced ease, blatantly amused. "No, I planned on keeping this little nugget of a tale to myself. Though, I'd probably tell you eventually. I mean—when you keep asking me what I'm smiling about tomorrow." He flashed her another beaming grin, turning and making for the door again.

Brennan spluttered out various curses at him which he only found cute, a little dirty, and impressively creative.

Angela continued to laugh.

"Although… your first accusation on my person holds a certain appeal," he threw over his shoulder, intent on getting a rise out of her. "Good things tend to happen when we're blackmailed."

The rise, of course, happened to be the sudden flushing of crimson in her cheeks.

Angela blinked, mirth dissipating. She turned to Brennan expectantly after the FBI Agent had since departed, a tilt to her head. "What's he talking about?"


End file.
